


Too much

by Mohini



Series: Bits and Pieces [2]
Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Sickfic, Vomiting, digestive misfortune
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-10
Updated: 2018-01-10
Packaged: 2019-03-03 05:56:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,709
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13334886
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mohini/pseuds/Mohini
Summary: The food is good, just as good as Steve’s mother always made, and dammit, he’s hungry. So very, very hungry that it doesn’t matter that he’s going to regret every last bite of this meal.





	Too much

Three huge helpings of spaghetti carbonara and an entire loaf of garlic bread later, it occurs to Bucky that maybe, just maybe, eating the equivalent of a family’s worth of Italian food for dinner might be a bad idea. Steve’s already got what looks to be better than a quarter of a cheesecake in front of him by that point, though, so he goes with it. The dessert is creamy and rich and it becomes a struggle to even swallow it only a few bites in. But he survived as the Winter Soldier for a reason, and he chokes every bit down and ignores the roiling fury of his stomach in favor of drinking another huge glass full of carbonated sugary soda. He’s spent too much time in and out of cryo, surviving on liquid diets and IV feedings. The food is good, just as good as Steve’s mother always made, and dammit, he’s hungry. So very, very hungry that it doesn’t matter that he’s going to regret every last bite of this meal. Steve’s watching him, eyebrows a little closer together than they would be if he didn’t see that something’s not right, but that’s just another thing Bucky chooses to ignore for now. 

They wash up side by side, Bucky washing and Steve drying and putting away. It’s as he hands the last plate over that the first huge cramp lances through his gut. It’s so sudden and so intense that he can’t stop the momentary wincing. 

“You okay, Buck?” Steve asks him.

“Yeah, yeah, just ate more than I should have, I think,” he murmurs, a hand going to his stomach, just below his diaphragm in an effort to ease the cramping. If anything, it makes it worse, and he braces a hand against the counter and breathes slow and deep for a moment. Steve’s arms are around him almost immediately, supporting his weight and gently nudging his locked knees into a more relaxed position.

“Let’s get you somewhere more comfortable,” Steve tells him when he can breathe mostly normally again. He doesn’t have the energy to do more than grunt his agreement. The cramping is better, but still hurts. He’s pretty sure that dinner is going to be making a repeat appearance, but at the moment he’s not sure which direction to be more concerned about.

Steve leads him into the sitting room, helping him onto the couch and letting him recline with his head on his shoulder and his back against Steve’s chest. Closing his eyes makes him nauseous, so he keeps them open and tries hard to keep his breathing slow and even. 

“You feeling sick?” Steve asks as he stiffens and swallows frantically the first time his entire gut seems to clench down tight and sharp. 

“Mmhh,” he grunts back, afraid to open his mouth for fear of spilling his dinner on the carpet. Steve’s got him up and in arms like a blushing bride within seconds, reassuring him that it’s alright. It’s not, and they both know it, but he swallows again and lets Steve carry him because he suddenly feels weak as a kitten, shaking and sweating and oh god, he’s going to be sick, he knows it now and there’s no way Steve’s going to get him to the toilet fast enough.

He’s planted on his knees and Steve guides him forward, supporting his chest with one huge arm and his head with a large hand. He’s got to be knelt behind him, Steve’s huge body aligned with his so tightly that it should feel wrong and it just feels absolutely completely right. 

The first heave, even though he knows well and truly that it’s coming, catches him by surprise. He chokes, sputtering painfully as his body clenches down and there is bright, burning pain from his gut all the way up his chest, into his throat. He heaves again, a tiny amount of creamy liquid entering his mouth. He spits frantically, gulping and trying to fight it. Another surge and every part of his body contracts so hard he’s sure he’s going to black out from the pressure. Nothing but tiny spurts of saliva and the surprisingly still sweet and creamy cheesecake are coming up and it hurts so, so much. It’s worse than the pre-cryo washes, worse than anything and he’s crying and can’t bring himself to even care.

“I’ve got you, Buck. I’ve got you, it’s going to be okay,” Steve tells him again and again as his body tries to turn itself inside out. 

He’s bawling, heaving over and over and he can’t breathe. Then the fruitless retching turns to forceful, burning vomiting and his meal is surging up his throat and splashing into the toilet over and over again. It goes on forever, vomit pouring from his mouth and his nose so fast he’s sure he’s going to pass out from lack of oxygen. Then he’s heaving again, choking gasps that seem to try to shove his empty stomach up as well before it shudders to a stop. He’s drenched, sweat dripping from his body and saliva dripping from his lips. He can’t seem to swallow at all, just pants into the disgusting mess and drools like a Saint Bernard. 

Steve’s hand leaves his forehead for a fraction of a minute, flushing away the undigested sludge. Bucky is vaguely aware that he’s done this a couple of times during the foul process. His gut clenches again and he retches so hard it feels like his toes will be coming though his mouth at any moment. 

“Shhh, shhh, it’s over now, Buck. You’re emptied out, just breathe for me. It’s over,” Steve reassures him again, and this time Bucky nods through his tears and tries to do what he’s told. Everything hurts. Everything. 

“I’m gonna get you up away from the toilet now, alright? We’ll stay in here just in case, but let’s get your head out of the bowl for a bit,” Steve tells him, and there are hands pulling him upright and then backwards. He’s limp and numb and couldn’t move himself even if he tried. He just lets Steve position him, head lolling back onto Steve’s shoulder and body collapsed against Steve’s chest. He can’t stop shaking.

“There now, that’s better, isn’t it?” Steve asks and Bucky grunts out a noise he hopes sounds like an agreement. Anything would be better than the last however long that torture lasted. Bucky closes his eyes and drifts. He’s still shaking, and his stomach still aches and there’s a pressure low in his gut that he’s sure doesn’t mean anything good. 

He wakes to the sensation of his bowels turning to lava, the pain too deep and too harsh to even begin to try to ease it. “Steve,” he groans out, hoping that the man holding him will understand what he needs. He’s terrified that he’s going to soil himself like a toddler but he’s too weak and disjointed to even try to move. 

“Hang on,” Steve tells him and he’s hoisted upright, his pants yanked off in a single motion as he’s planted on the toilet seat with seconds to spare. He cries out when the first wave of liquid fire pours from his backside, wrapping his arms around his gut and immeasurably grateful for Steve’s arms steadying him. He drops his head forward, resting it against Steve and letting himself be petted and soothed. 

It’s every bit as bad as the vomiting had been earlier. Every time he thinks he’s finished, his body bears down again. It’s hard to breathe and he’s gasping between cramping bouts. A few times, he retches, and Steve holds the trash can in front of him while he chokes up bile. He loses time again, drifting in and out of full awareness, cognizant of little beyond how very much he hurts. Part of cryo prep had involved harsh purgatives, and the longer this goes on, the worse the little flashes of memory are getting. It makes him whimper, and he’s no longer sure if the trembling is from the chills brought on by the cold sweats that are drenching him or the half remembered pain from before. 

When it’s over and his body feels wrung out and butterfly fragile, Steve hands him dampened toilet paper to clean himself off before running a warm bath. Bucky sinks into the water, Steve seated behind him and carefully washing him off with a touch just firm enough to keep him grounded but not so rough as to remind him of the years with Hydra. He’s wrapped in fluffy towels once clean and led to the bedroom. Steve brings in a mop bucket, placing it beside the bed after muttering something about just in case. 

Bucky sleeps. He’s so tired, so achy, and all he cares about is sleeping this horrible feeling off. His gut is empty, he’s sure of it, but it still aches and cramps and if he thought it would help he would ask for something to drink just to have something to bring up. He wakes sometime in the night, hand searching frantically for the mop bucket and so very grateful for Steve’s reflexes and speedy awakening as the other man gets it under his lips before he’s coughing up frothy stomach acids and saliva before collapsing back into the pillow. The night goes on like that, with Bucky sleeping fitfully between vomiting bouts. He’s plagued by a resurgence of the agonizing diarrhea a few times as well, and during all of it Steve is there, talking to him and keeping him in the here and now. 

By morning, he’s finally no longer cramping. He sleeps soundly after that and it’s nearing evening before he wakes up again. Steve doesn’t say anything, just offers him a mug of herbal tea and a few soda crackers and holds him on the couch. He doesn’t know how he went from being the Asset to being Steve’s Bucky again, but he’s not going to start asking questions now. All that matters is that he’s safe, finally, for the first time in too many years. Steve’s assurance that they won’t be having carbonara again for at least a decade helps as well.


End file.
